One of the most weird things to come out of bits of my life is the coming and going of time and interest in reading. It used to be I could devour fiction pretty quick, but some time during my undergrad and postgrad that sort of fell by the wayside and I got out of practice. Then all the dysphoria kicked in and basically I obsessively inhaled a whole bunch of trans theory and fiction while I was disassembling my notions of myself and rebuilding them and exploring my inner landscapes and going “Oh hey! That’s what all this stuff is!” which was pretty cool, but not really the same.
Now I’m starting to slowly come through the other side of that, or at least one phase of that, and I’m getting back into slowly reading fiction again. And I do mean slowly, my reading pace has dropped off dramatically and amount of errors picked up. The really interesting thing however is that I can actually read and enjoy poetry now :)
Various people (aaaaaaand by that I mostly mean Mish) have tried over the years to implant a love of poetry in me, but for ages I just didn’t get it. But I spent some very enjoyable time this evening on a train with a book of poetry (Andrea Waddell’s “Sounds of the Soul”) and just sitting and enjoying reading it, sometimes poking into the structure, sometimes just letting it wash over me.
Very strange experiences this life gives.